Tag: short story

“The Lucid Dream of Marcel Smithski – (Just Another Poor ‘Walter Mitty Of The South Seas’) (A Short Story/Ep 46 Podcast)

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By Martin Anton Smith ( Listen to audio! Click here > https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/omQpHtnaJub )

Marcel Smithski age 29 was definitely a Walter Mitty type character. He was a ‘History buff’, practically spending half his life bumming around musty old urban bookshops hidden down the numerous alleyways of his hometown of Melbourne Australia. He loved the obligatory parts of second-hand book store culture: the smell of the musty books, the nerdy bespectacled & rake thin staff always reading at the cashier desk. He loved the thrill of the chase, of finding that hidden gem such as Steven J Gould, Christopher Hitchens, Bukowski, Orwell, Hawking or Bertrand Russell or any number of the numerous brilliant minds that lined those dusty tall shelves.

After a typical book hunting session, he retired to his bohemian digs in St Kilda. He lived in a weird boarding house built in Edwardian times; it was at base beautiful property but like them all – it was now simply a faded memory of its former self. He continued the second half of his creature of habit ritual -shutting himself away in his room, lying on his bed and beginning a 7-hr read-a-thon. He was perusing his latest great find called “The Great Depression: A Diary by Benjamin Roth – a blow by blow account of the great depression years from the viewpoint of a professional man.

Not long into the session his mind began to think of the 1930’s – and this triggered his Walter Mitty dreaming. He was dreaming again of being the world’s only ever successfully ‘Benevolent Dictator’. Priorly of course, he had read about the 1930’s era of terribly nasty despots – with of course Hitler, Mussolini Stalin, & Mao Tse Tung being the most famous warlords.

Smithski started to think of the whole ‘1920’s -1940s rise of the Dictators epoch’ and why it had happened & what went wrong. Smithski thought to himself, as if talking to another deadbeat intellectual in one of the many St Kilda cafe’s along Acland or Fitzroy St.

“Their main problem was they forgot their roots – that of creating a better life for the working classes and the poor. All of them had at the start had the kernel of a better way for the downtrodden, the result being their emancipation from systemic bourgeois exploitation. But They all became corrupted with general adulation & fame, the company & adoration of the well-heeled aristocracy, personal opulence via casual access to other people’s money”.

In theory, Smithski knew that it wasn’t the fact that they were Dictators that made them all bad – it was that they had allowed themselves to be corrupted. This massive flaw – corruption – was the key tendency of centralised planning or leadership – & the core reason Dictators destroy their countries from within & if given the chance – everyone else’s.

Smithski, after much pondering had realised that if a single person – a ‘Dictator’ – could make the best decisions at the time, time after time & year after year – this would actually be the best form of Government. Logically we live in a world of decisions, often these are trade-offs & there is an ideal trade-off between two or more competing interests.

Often decisions are hard as they require difficult to collect & analyse data; decisions are hard because of bureaucracy, limited access to technology, lack of funds, political adversaries that block good ideas, an uneducated voting public etc etc. If your “Perfect Dictator” was multi skilled, a genius, hugely life experienced, technically proficient, persuasive, a great organiser, morally robust, healthy & confidant – then it would be best if he or she made all the hard decisions with no red tape or unnecessary voting theatrics. Smithski reasoned that one day the gem that was the ‘perfect singular leader’ would eventually happen – simply by mathematical chance coupled with the unfurling of thousands of years of Human history.

Smithski was lying on his messy bed, eyes glazed staring at the cobwebbed ceiling & dreaming of being that perfect Dictator that would indeed save the world. He imagined being the young proto benevolent Dictator who was just beginning to be noticed by the world.

Now deeply ensconced in the dreamtime he imagines penning & then delivering a perfectly imperfect speech to the world’s population. The topic? – it was about the most pressing matter of the current era – the War in Europe that had recently sparked when Russia Invaded the Ukraine. His speech in front of all the worlds ‘fake dignitaries’ & it’s billions of couch-sitting masses would be beamed to an Internet & TV audience of at least 4 billion. Smithski imagined himself making the speech from some Globalist thinktank conference podium that he’d somehow sneaked himself into through some shrewed underhand sleight of hand.

“Hello there fake dignitaries! You are the scum of the earth – and you know it. You have no values and no interests in making life better for your constituents. No, you have long since sold your souls to the “fake elites” who are much richer than you, have much higher status than you. You see that is the problem – you rats have all got into the Politician/Ceo/Executive game not to help your fellow man – you have got into the game to feather your own nest & to try to curry favour with those rich narcissists who actually want chaos for the 99% of the population.

These are the people who want to ensure slavery not only continues to exist – but they want to see it thrive. You see these devil inspired pond scum love exclusivity – they need to reject others. in this rejection they feel good – for they feel superior. You false elite have gathered here not to “save the world” as is in the blurbs of your press releases -you are here to reject your fellow man & to party with your fellow fallen angels.

You hate the average joe & jane. You have decided to make them as stupid as possible. If they are stupid slaves, they will never realise they are slaves thus never revolt. You aim is to destroy the truth. To do this your population my not want to read past History. To do this you have invented the mass internet service – which you initially allowed to be free and uncensored. This was the honey to catch the flies. Within a decade half the world was online. then you started to censor it – you started to mess with algorithms. These algorithms loaded the dice towards traditional players and away from anything new. Away from anyone that wanted freedom from your tyranny. You gave 3 men total governorship & control & censorship of the worldwide internet communications!”

Smithski took a breath – to assess the drawn faces in the crowd. There was the contorted masculine face of Ursela Van Der Lube – she had a massive upside-down frown. Her wrinkles were as deep as the Grand Canyon. Her eyes were like pinholes. Her hair was like a butch lesbian’s from 1989. She was the President of the EU – she was promoted by the American sector of the dark side – for her meekness and spinelessness. She was a German and she had allowed Germany to cede her sovereignty to the American shadowy faces that told her what to do. She allowed people to micro manage her.

There was messy blonde-haired & overweight Norris Nonsent – the current UK Prime minister. Nonsent was best described as a middle aged ‘Ancient Greek Parable’ quoting, over entitled boarding-schooler. Yes, this fat little piggy had a rode his silver tongue into 10 Downing Street, on the back of the orchestrated wave of Nationalism that was the fake news of the UK leaving the EU economic market. Of course, this “Public Vote for the Future Direction of the UK” was far from an organic popular initiative – it was all centrally planned by the Shadowers.

The Shadower’s had noticed that the public’s anger levels were reaching a dangerous crescendo, and could slip over from ‘sporadic anarchy’ – which they liked – into ‘general anarchy’ – which they didn’t want yet. To mitigate this they created a diversion – a ‘political mirage’ if you will. They fashioned a popular movement called “Next-Fit” – which was in actual fact just a retention of the ‘status quo’. The working man, woman & child would still be eating shite sandwiches & there would be no “Economic Divorce With The EU’ at all.

The theory behind the “Next-Fit” plan was that the potentially revolutionary, working-class & poor half of the public could be fooled into transferring their downtrodden anarchic energies into the non-violent chatter of “Fighting To Save Britain” & nationalistic proclamations of “I’m Voting for NextFit”.

This stealing & reworking of the working classes revolutionary mojo culminated in a “Pro or Anti NextFit” referendum vote. This would of course result in a pre-determined outcome – Yes Vote for NextFit, and the resignation of the current “anti NextFit” Pm. He would be replaced by the supposed people’s man & “Pro NextFit” Puppet PM Norris Nonsent. The incumbent PM would be the fall guy.

If all went right with the plan – which it did- the people would feel like they had triggered a mini ‘Peoples Revolution’, bask in their success, and thus a return to being easily controlled docile sheep. Mission accomplished.

There was the New Zealand Pm Jackie Aldren – she was relatively young at 41 and was handed the leadership because she was a woke meek careerist and an easily influenced nut job. Her prime asset to the shadow people was she adored celebrity & status. The more she had the more she could love herself. The more vacuous & famous people she could take selfies, the happier she was. She was rake thin and had 5 years into her Prime-Ministership started to look grey gaunt and cadaverous. She like the typical Shadow employee had always been a Public Servant – i.e. she had never been in an environment where ridiculous ideas naturally died off. The ‘Shadowers’, as he had dubbed them, never hired Politicians that had been independent & successful businessmen. They needed clueless morons who would shovel as much of their shit into the mouths of the captive poverty stricken, who were now as designed – a very mentally ill & downtrodden populace.

There was Andrew Laconizie – the Australian PM. He was of course ‘Just Another Wokester Premier’. But his situation was sadder than Jackie Aldren’s. He had been the son of a battler – a single mother on welfare. He had the chance as and MP and then as PM to try to make people like him have better lives. Laconizie had until age thirty, when he became a MP, lived a ‘tough life’ marked by poverty & privation. But because he chose politics instead of private industry – the die was cast. He wouldn’t be helping anyone. He had ‘put his hat’ into a game whereby you had to sell out any community values to progress upwards. In this rotten game called ‘Politics’ they had a strict rule: If you had been from a poor upbringing – they would only present the ‘ladder of opportunity’ if you agreed to pull the ladder up on the public once you yourself had climbed it. Andrew Laconzie had long since done his ‘devil’s deal’ & he signed his soul away on that shadowy dotted line.

There was French Premier Manuel Slamacaroon. This guy had a mummy complex. When he was 5 years old, he had become infatuated with his 29-year-old teacher. He told her he would marry her – and 30 years later he did just that. When he married her at age 35, she was one year away from claiming superannuation. T

he ‘Shadowers’ loved a freak like Slamacaroon. This guy was so odd he had no idea about the average ‘creme bun loving’ Frenchman that read and talked in the cafes. He had like all the numbskulls presided over a deteriorating society where his people lost wages, became mentally sick and committed suicide in record numbers. He had allowed France to lose sovereignty just like all those vacuous prior French & International Premiers. He gladly entertained the Fascism that was internet censorship. Yes, he took it from behind & the ‘Shadowers’ were the delivery boys.

Then there was John Bluffoon – the US President. He had a 10-centimeter line of drool hanging from his mouth, and was not just asleep but was snoring & breaking wind periodically. This guy was now 85 and drooling constantly, forgetting where he was, coughing uncontrollably, falling over all the time, talking in total gibberish. He – just like the others – had been installed as a ‘Puppet’ by the ‘Shadowers’, and so had no real power whatsoever. He could not even order the flavour of ice cream he wanted – his wife did that for him. In this case the Shadowers had installed him via two methods: stuffed fabricated ballots & and electronic voter machine fraud. Bluffoon’s presidential ‘win’ this second time around was successfully stolen from the real winner, the incumbent President – Don Trumpf. The Shadowers had redeemed themselves – the leader of the ‘free world’ was as per usual their Puppet, and they the Puppet Masters.

Before his presidency, Trumpf was a successful businessman & TV star – he was one of the most recognisable faces on the planet, known for his persuasion and supreme confidence – if not also a likable blowhard. Late in life, as he’d already achieved everything else, Trumpf decided to make a run for President – mainly just for fun. He never expected to ‘get in’ – but the disaffected working classes had voted him in on the back of his utopian working-class vision he had espoused in his stump speeches on the campaign trail.

Come mid-election night it was clear Trumpf had gotten in ‘accidentally’ – the Shadowers had assumed this ‘TV Celeb’ big talker would be seen as a joke by the people – so they didn’t bother rigging the election. He wasn’t seen as a joke. So Trumpf had his 4 years as President – much the Shadower’s chagrin. The next time they corrected for their mistake and paid ‘mules’ to stuff thousands of unmonitored ballot mailboxes with ballots that were printed off in their tens of thousands. It took only 90,000 of these harvested Ballots – all sent to ‘swing state’ ballot boxes coupled with electronic voter machine hacking – to steal the election.

Smithski was amazed he had not been taken off the stage yet – but them again he was just an uninvited guest who had simply walked up to the mic & started talking. He had thrived off the unpredictability of the situation. He was not upset, but was emboldened by the several thousand drawn faces of the governmental & corporate toady globalist puppets in the crowd.

He had flustered the officials off stage – they were flipping frantically through their clipboards trying to find a name that did not exist.

Smithski then decided it was time to out the Shadow People’s ‘Grand Plan’ – that is the depopulation of planet Earth via an orchestrated Nuclear World War 3. There would after the War be only be 500 thousand people left. this comprised of the core shadow people – which was 1000 people – and their 4000 strong friends & entourage; the remaining 495 000 would be their slaves – slaves for work & slaves for adult pleasures & other casual entertainment. With this new post ww3 world would have their own personalised & updated version of the bible’s Sodom & Gomorrah tale.

In this dystopia of their choosing, the 1000 strong elite status Shadowers would freely rape pillage and sacrifice the slaves – often even drinking their blood. Smithski was about to expose it all, he had hacked into the ‘Inner 5’ Shadow leadership – he had gained access to the email which had the manifesto of the “Sodom & Gomorrah & Depopulate Master Plan”. He would kill the plan before its final battle was ready to be rolled out.

Then he heard a loud ‘pop’ sound – his head was thrown back, he hit the ground, he felt blood flee from his stricken body. He had been assassinated. He knew this would probably happen – but he had prepared for this situation. He had arranged a system whereby if he didn’t stop the process each day, an email would send to every active email address ever activated. Tomorrow the people, the ‘great unwashed’ would have the Shadowers ‘Depopulation Plan’ Manifesto – and they could mount a rebellion. they would organise a pre-emptive strike on the structure of this global satanic inspired organisation. With the last few seconds of life his mouth formed a sweet grin -that of a man that had had a good life & knew his legacy would unfold as planned.

Smithski suddenly was awoken from his lucid daydreaming by an almighty racket from the kitchen. It was the sound of pots & pans flying and raised voices. It was the power crazy tall middle-aged Dutchman in a slanging match with his long-term adversary – the middle-aged fat Cypriot. Words were exchanged & pots flew but never a fist did fly. Being older men, they were happy to use old world, now unacceptable terminology.

“I’ll kill you, you, fat wog Cypriot c*nt”

“Try it you Stamp collecting Dutch Imperialist Wanker”

“I will you ugly fat mechanic dog!”

“You’re just a Dutch fag Loser!”

“Says you, you mulatto-man fatso pig!”

It always ended just at the point when you’d expect it to get physical – the Cypriot who was smaller would self-preserve and skulk back to his shack, while the Dutchie would glide back to his room self-satisfied & triumphant once again. At heart they were good guys – like many of the middle-aged life & had just done them in. All they had left to interest them was petty share-house pecking order politics.

“One day I’ll leave this weird dump” Smithski thought. One day I’ll find a better paying job, a decent woman & move into a much better street. Of course, Smithski knew this probably would never happen – at heart he loved the culture of being an intellectual bohemian in the gutters of life – for this would allow the Walter Mitty lifestyle to live on forever. A ‘Walter Mitty Character’ would never actually live in a mansion on a hill with a trophy wife, two children and a golf club membership – and neither would Smithski. Never ever would he step down in his role as the aging bohemian perennial daydreamer – always dreaming of alternate realities where he finally and at long last – ‘comes good’.

Smithski turned to the next page of “The Great Depression: A Diary”, as usual he had almost completely forgotten the details his latest lucid day dream, he knew this was a good one – but he wasn’t really that worried, knew another was brewing just around the corner of a delightfully musty, bookshelf at a bookstore down a dark alleyway.

As he flipped the page, he thought to himself – “If there was a new Great Depression, I wouldn’t even notice the difference – my life would hardly change”. This realisation sent a happy grin across Smithski’s whiskered, already too lined, but none the less rustically handsome face. He kept on reading – after all, it was only two minutes to midnight, with still four hours to go in his usual read-a-thon.

He was about to turn the page when he saw something move outside his open window – he didn’t worry as Carlisle Street in Saint Kilda was always awash with garden variety shadowy figures – be they prostitutes, pimps, drunks or con men. These types were unsavoury but statistically mostly harmless. Over time Smithski had realised they weren’t really any different from anyone else he met these days – it was simply a matter of degree. Smithski knew the real ones to fear were those inside the system & who were seen to be doing well – those were the monsters in plain sight, the ones that danced so happily together amongst the shadows, frantically worshipping some unseen gods.

  • contact me at martinantonsmith@gmail.com

“Arthur -The Mostly Monopolised Man” (A Short Story)

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By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

He got up on the ‘wrong side of the bed’,

Which was odd as his bed was against the wall.

It was a daily occurrence that he could not explain.

And in the end, he just accepted it, and it never registered again in his mind.

He was a worry-wort and his mind now turned to a cacophony of negative past & present memories….

He was told on countless occasions in his life that he had his ‘head in the clouds’,

Which wasn’t logical as he lived in the Arizona Desert.

Secondly, he had always had lousy jobs – why couldn’t he dream?

His Boss always told him he was ‘penny wise & pound stupid’,

Which couldn’t happen as he used US Dollars.

And with his life being what it was – why couldn’t he escape a little at the track?

An old broken-down teacher used to embarrass him in class by singling him out saying he was as ‘mad as a hatter’,

Which didn’t make sense, as he despised hats.

When he came of age, he knocked on that teacher’s door.

When the door opened, he lunged forward and put Mr Turnbridge’s head right through an old hat – Laurie & Hardy style.

He then walked casually away from the doorstep of his startled & trembling ex tormentor.

As he left he casually said “It’s a perfect fit Mr Turnbridge – don’t you think?”.

Once a Strange New Zealand accented lady told him to ‘pull his finger out’,

Which confused him greatly as his fingers were all ‘dangling free’.

He yelled back at her “No one cares about the Lord if the Rings – You ugly rube!”

These ghost memories from the past were starting to get to him, and he now wore a quizzical frown.

An old man walked by and shouted “cheer up son – it may never happen”,

He was perplexed as he was not sure what the old man thought what was supposed to happen.

He probably shouldn’t have thrown his boot at that old fella. It hit him square in the back of the head and his false teeth fell out on the pavement – much to the horror of his now fear shaken wife.

He stopped and sat on the kerb by the train station as his emotions welled up from within him.

The ’emotional dam’ burst & he started to bawl his eyes out.

The self-loathing induced by these avalanche-like reflections always become far too much to handle stoically – especially now he was older.

He couldn’t handle the ‘Panzer Division’ of regretful thoughts that were increasingly invading & interrogating his soul.

Then some baby boomers walked by on the way to the train station.

He overheard the old man whisper to her:

“He doesn’t know whether he’s Arthur or Martha”

On hearing this he suddenly spring-leapt off the kerb, arms out.

Arthur had totally forgotten his wife Martha had instructed him to be home at 6pm sharp.

At 6pm Arthur & Martha would sit together & do the daily crossword.

Arthur didn’t think he could make it back in time,

After all it was 5.55pm & he was currently 5 blocks down, 3 across from home.

When he got back it was 6:07, he opened the door sheepishly & tip toed into the lounge.

Martha was on the mottled old couch with a crossword, staring at him as an angry schoolteacher would a problem-child.

She rose off the couch, standing militarily upright and shouted with hands-on-hips at him:

“Arthur! Your late! I’m stuck on 7 Up and 1 Across!”

“Sorry but it couldn’t be helped -What’s the Clue dear”?

Arthurs simple cheery reply had now halved Martha’s disappointment. She spoke:

“Two words 10 letters: to waste time, especially by being slow, or by not being able to make a decision”

“Oh, that’s easy – its ‘Dilly-dally'”, said Arthur wisely.

On hearing this Martha suddenly spring-leapt off the couch, arms out.

“Oh Arthur, you’re a real good-un, a ray of sunshine, a modern miracle!!”

Arthur simply smiled, as once again ‘domestic serendipity’ had shone its light upon him.

He made a pact to himself to never be on time again, not that it mattered – he never was anyway.

He resolved to continue to be a fool, a waster & a lolly gagger, but also always be kind to Martha.

After all – It was his destiny, and the proof was cryptically written in the funny pages.

And most importantly – his wife was happy, for now.

But Arthur knew his luck wouldn’t last – it never did.

For sooner or later Martha would tire of crosswords & pull out the Monopoly board.

Then he’d feel his anxiety rise & have to excuse himself & go for a walk,

For even the most confused Dilly-Dally-er’s grow tired of ‘landing on jail’, Sliding up & down snakes & ladders & Professor Plum’s silly murder plots.

As he walked along the pavement the ‘Panzer division’ of anxious thoughts re-entered the battlefield.

After 5 blocks Arthur about turned and frog-marched himself homewards.

“Martha likes to play Cluedo at 9” he told himself.

With each step closer to Martha & home, the ‘Panzer Division’ incrementally retreated, and disappeared entirely.

He opened the creaky door.

It was 9:09pm – which for him was right on time.

Martha was sitting at the dining room table with the Cluedo set unfurled.

She lit the candlesticks.

“About time Colonel Mustard”, she said dryly.

“How right she is” thought Arthur as he walked over to the lounge.

The next day it was all over the news, and police, media & detectives flooded the house.

Diana the quiet next door Neighbor who never talked to them since moving in 3 years ago, had raised the alarm after hearing her blood-curdling scream at 10pm.

She was not that surprised he had snapped so suddenly.

She has seem him walk by late so often and so strangely and always with great anxiety written on his face, & usually in tears.

‘Colonel Mustard’ had done it with the Candlestick in the Lounge in a psychotic rage.

In the trial he testified that he had become frustrated during the game with his wife, over a small matter of whose turn it was.

He said he believed he did it due to PTSD which he had suffered from since serving in Iraq.

The jury gave a reduced sentence of 2 years for Manslaughter, due to considerations of mental impairment caused from PTSD, and they allowed him to serve the sentence as home detention.

As George was being led away from the dock, he felt relieved.

His low-key reclusive lifestyle & a largely clueless small-town jury had swallowed his story hook line & sinker.

He had served in Iraq but on the day of the landmine attack on his unit’s convoy he had been transferred to another unit than morning.

George left in a Humvee in the opposite direction only 45 mins prior to the deadly & also PTSD inducing explosion.

The Army Paperwork of his transfer had the wrong date – the following day.

The jury had no reason to think he was not there on the day of the explosion, & his fellow Vets who were

there that day, or were members in his ‘transferred to’ unit were never going to rat him out.

He had ‘got lucky’ on account of sloppy paperwork and timing of the transfer.

But he knew he’d lied to society, ruined his life, taken a life and lost the only loved one he ever had.

He’d still have to live with himself, & he could not ever deceive himself as easily as he did the jury.

Later George would tell the truth, but only on his death bed only 18 months later.

Guilt is a powerful force, it riddled George’s body with Cancer with such swift force doctors could do nothing.

He died at home while still serving his sentence, in the same spot where he’d sit for so many hours and

play board games with Martha, and only a ‘board-games length’ distance from where he’d murdered her.

He’d finally got his comeuppance, as also shown by the frozen expression of a giant frown on his now dead body’s face.

The old man coroner had never seen one quite that big in all his career.

“you can’t cheat life” he muttered to himself, which was a favourite expression of his.

“The Fourth Principle” (A Short Story)

Posted in dystopia, fiction, short story, warTagged , , Leave a comment

A Short Story by Martin Anton Smith

Neoliberalism was designed to destroy society over a 50-year time cycle. The key to this was the ruination of manufacturing/laboring jobs held by the poor & working-classes. With the “off shoring” of these jobs, the poor & working class simply turned to organised crime to fund themselves.

The rest of the more privileged population by this time were so stupid that they believed the cries of the Government-owned or Government-bribed Media, who in their broadcasts treated the constant violent crimewaves as “aberrations”. It was important to have such brainwashing so that the destruction of society was frictionless.

As the 50th year and final year approached in 2025, the unreported crime, anarchy & disarray had caused the general population collapse to a 1 million strong geo-scattered hunter and gatherer population. Yet of course this particular country – New Zealand had a ‘gated elite’ population of 100,000 which had never been affected. But of course, the same thing was happening everywhere else. This was indeed a Global happening. These few thousand elites with big plans would eventually re-label themselves the ‘Al-ito-zan’

Jan 1st 2026 was deemed ‘Year Zero’. ‘The Al-ito-zan would hold celebrations much akin to a disorganised versions of official ‘Satanist Rituals’. The ‘Al-ito-zan’ were now able to have free sovereign reign over the land. They declared a ‘New State’ – one that was effectively a new Techno Autocratic Monarchy, similar in some ways to Tsarist Russia, but seemingly simpler and less bureaucratic. They had won their war & the horrible poor & working-classes were gone.

Of course, there was something left over from the now very dead 4 million poor & working classes – their Blood. The Al-ito-zan were smart enough to collect the blood from the dead, irradiate it & store it in giant refrigerators. This was their Elixir, their health drink – their ‘Toasting Drop’.

They called this tasty drop “Zero-ade” or more colloquially “Serf-ade”. They loved the texture, the saltiness, the viscosity, the dopamine high that came shortly after drinking. Some Al-ito-zan used a spritzer, some mixed it with fine Central Otago Pinon Noir. Some boiled it down.

The Al-ito-zan partied away the Whole of Year Zero. They had now an untrammeled Elitist society, with no requirement that any action be “For the benefit of NZ as whole”; there was no organised Police or Parliament or Laws or any connection to the old Westminster based system.

In the new Al-ito-zan system from Year Zero – & New Zealand was just one of many ‘Satellite Provinces’ worldwide – there were only 3 Prime Principles:

  1. Honour the Prime Al-ito-zan King or Queen (or King and Queen)

2. Never Kill a Fellow Al-ito-zan

3. The Remaining Vanquished are to be left alone as beasts to wander freely.

In year 1 the Partying had subsided. The Al-ito-zan were now purposefully avoiding mentioning the debauchery they all partook in during the entire Year Zero – very similar to the immediate week after “Office Xmas parties” were prior to the 2020s. This was for good reason as the parties in year Zero were audacious affairs fuelled from drug highs from gallon upon gallon of fresh poorly brewed SerfWine. Simply put, ‘Year Zero’ was akin to the 1969 Summer of Love multiplied by 10. Now it was Year 1, people knew that free year was over, and they had to now determine what exactly was ‘normal’ behaviour in their new elitist paradise. That year was defined by what is known as ‘a social holding pattern’.

In this environment general life was punctuated with countless hours filled by philosophical, and sociological conversation and arguments. These often-heated conversing’s, happened among the guests at dinner parties and between friends mostly in evenings. SerfWine and firm opinions would flow aplenty at these often-informal gatherings at the dining rooms and firesides of the Al-ito-zan.

“Walter, I think we are lucky to be where we are, yes – don’t get me wrong. We have at base the society we always wanted, no more riff raff and no need to pretend that we care about natures abominations. But…

“But….But what Nicholas, come on be frank, remember no one’s listening anymore, spit it out son”

“Well, don’t you think there’s something missing in the “Three Principles”?

“Well, the idea is to avoid “Laws” and things like “Police, Judges and Lawyers” , but still have a fatherly guiding hand so to speak”

“Yes, I understand that but only THREE, isn’t that insane to you Walter?

“How do you mean Nicholas? Do you think there’s something missing or some of them are wrong?

“Both”

“Come on genius, explain yourself” (Walter takes a long slug of SerfWine)

“Ok Walter lets start with what’s wrong, well not exactly wrong but incomplete. Point one says “Honour the Prime Al-ito-zan King or Queen” but it doesn’t give any detail on what that means.”

“yes, that’s a fair assessment, but there’s reasons for everything, I mean we don’t have the details”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit strange? To have total ambiguity and no details AT ALL on what “Honour the King or Queen” means – I mean it’s rank insanity to my mind Walter, surely you agree?”

“Nicholas, don’t you see we don’t need details – in this society we TRUST the King or Queen, and we have no reason yet to question them – I mean the changeover to paradise has been perfect – not a single Al-ito-zan died! Why the mistrust?”

“Walter, doesn’t the fact we haven’t even been told whether we either have a King OR a Queen or Both yet ring alarm bells?”

“Well, we don’t really need to know do we? I mean the point is to obey a prime figure who we know represents us perfectly”

“I agree with you 99% on that but It doesn’t quite sit well with me Walter, call it a ‘gut feeling'”.

“Nicholas, you sound like a man from the 1920’s, don’t expect perfection yet, blimey it’s only one month through year one!”

“Well, that’s just one of my concerns – let me continue”

Walter tells Nicholas to “wait a second” casually and slugs back the last of his SerfWine. He gets the bottle only a meter away sitting on the mantlepiece. It sits above the now slightly less roaring fire. The bottle is still half full and he pours it quickly for himself and then tops Nicolas up.

“Isn’t this SerfWine great Nick? Look at the boy, you can tell he was going to taste delicious!”

Nicholas looks at the back label Walter shows him, it shows a picture of the late teenage boy who was eliminated for the crime of being working class poor. he was a strapping lad, and the photo was taken before he knew his fate, so he had a genuine smile. Nicholas wasn’t usually emotional, and he had hated them like everyone – but he felt slightly off. he shrugged in off and continued his argument.

“Ok well next problem is with point 2 “Never Kill a Fellow Al-ito-zan ”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you disagree with that”

“No of course not, but ask yourself this – how would anyone know if I was to say stab you and burn you in that fire, I mean there is no Laws, Police or Judiciary”

“People know I exist; they’d know something was up”

“But the point Walter is this: No one would know what to do or what would happen – there is no guidelines given to us! Isn’t it weird that I’m trusted 100% to never hurt you or another fellow Al-ito-zan?”

“Hmmm, yes I see your point, but we have paradise now and no one would ever need to hurt anyone, I mean we have all the resources and land to ourselves”

“For now we do, but what about in 100 years Walter – things can change for the worse can’t they, I mean look at History look at the year 1929?”

“That was a Stock Market Crash, wasn’t it? Then that spurned The Great Depression and World War 2. Yes Yes, but Nicholas that was well before the change, don’t use those dark ages as your personal Chrystal-Ball! Thats insanity, everything’s well now, all the ducks are in a row!”

“Is it Walter, I’m not 100% sure”

“Apparently you are 99% sure but I’m starting to think you’ve exaggerated; you sound almost like a -dare I say it – a counter revolutionary!”

“You are dramatic, must be a hangover from our drama class days at school – King Lear, wasn’t it?

“Yes, how embarrassing that performance was, oh well at least I was the king! You were the Fool if I remember correctly – are you reprising your role now Nick?”

“Touché, touché, very funny – now let me go to Point Three”

“Oh no, there’s more is there”

“Afraid so son, and I’ve barely started, I’ve got to talk about the missing points yet!”

Walter groans, takes a hearty slug and eyes the next bottle of SerfWine in the lattice shaped wine holder on the wall.

“Ok point three “The Remaining Vanquished are to be left alone as beasts to wander freely” why did they leave the last fifth to survive? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? I mean it doesn’t make sense? We don’t need them for SerfWine, we have huge stocks from the cull and perfect blood replicators after that.”

“Yes we do, but I suppose the King or Queen wanted to show benevolence – you know kindness”

“Walter, you are my best friend, we’ve known each other for 35 years as school mates, but I have to tell you when you say that you sound like you still are a schoolboy”

“Pish Posh! Ok assuming you have reasons to doubt, pray tell me why they are still here then Nick – come on “The Fool”.

Walter was now quite red in the face, having finished his wine at twice the rate as Nicholas, and already halfway through the next bottle.

“Well, I think it might explain the Trust element of the principles – or should I say explain it away“

“Go on Fool, keep the joke going”

“Well don’t you think 1 million freely roaming hardy battle hardened Serfs would be perfect spies? This would explain that the TRUST that is implied but unworkable is actually just a ruse. The true system – one that IS workable is in place and consists of a surveillance state – the very souls who are the remainder of the Vanquished Serfs!”

“Oh Nicolas, don’t embarrass yourself! You sound like an anti-moon landing kook from 1980’s! Why would we go to all the trouble of a free society for us Al-ito-zan, and then add a layer of surveillance from the very people we want nothing to do with other than to drink their blood! PERPOSTEROUS”

“Walter, have you heard that old saying “eliminate the impossible and what’s left must be the truth”

“I’m opening another bottle, and then we change the subject to something fun – do you think the parties of last year will return?”

“Ok but you must admit my theory explains all the inconsistencies in the three points – We don’t need to know there’s a King or Queen or a King & Queen because there isn’t one – there is only a hidden surveillance state. We will never kill a fellow Al-ito-zan, because they will kill us long before that via the roaming secret police/execution squad the ones that by necessity are roaming ‘totally free’ and untrammeled – ex Serfs”

“That’s quite enough Nicholas!”

Walter is now visibly angry, his face beet red and sweat is dripping off his nose. He throws his dreg filled glass into the now embers-only fireplace, the crash sound echoes and a few bits of glass bounce back at their feet. Being well bred both Walter and Nicholas allow the emotion to suddenly dissipate.

“Walter, sorry I went to far, I was just fooling around, of course you are right I pushed things to far – as always! I don’t really believe that stuff, I just love to play contrarian – you know that better than anyone Walter”

“Okay Okay Nick, sorry I don’t know what came over me”

“It was just too much blood, that’s the blood talking – that batch of SerfWine is too potent, I’ll complain to the vendor – he’s a bit shonky even if he is well bred.”

“Yes, do that, do that – I’m ok now I’ll just sip some water, can you get me some”

“Yes of course Walter – take a seat for a moment”.

Nicholas went down the hallway, in the hallway he past all of his 20th century history-based posters, WW1 posters of trench warfare, another of the Spanish flu, one of the Moon landings another of the Berlin Wall falling.

He thought to himself that he better keep his ideas to himself – no one must know of his spouting off what could be twisted as ‘counter revolutionary thought’ because this would certainly break Principal 1 – “Honour the King Or Queen Or The King & Queen”. But then he laughed as he heard himself think. He suddenly became himself again – lacking in confidence. He felt stupid for thinking they were all being deceived by some “hidden surveillance state”. He was just an idiot, like he had always been, and that’s what he told himself now.

He suddenly started to dread going back to see Walter. He had more than embarrassed himself. His mind started to race “what if Walter tells Stacey about what I said? What if she tells her nosey gossipy wife, then she her friends, then them their husbands and then everyone else? But then he told himself he might be ok as there probably is no police or reporting system anyway – the worst he’d be is deeply embarrassed for a week or two. But then he thought “what if I’m right and there is a hidden surveillance state”. He was pretty sure if there was, it was still in its infancy and imperfect – I mean he had seen no roaming ‘Vanquished Serfs’ in his country estate.

He had to make a call – if he was right, and did nothing Walter would blab, the story would grow and he would almost certainly be found out. From his love of 20th century History and Sci-fi he guessed that Surveillance State – if it was real would torture or imprison him. Or perhaps, he’d be killed and replaced with a duplicate advanced AI robot and no one would realise he was gone. He decided even though he couldn’t take that chance – he would have to kill Walter by bashing his head with the kitchen pestle and he can simply drag his body and throw his body in the artificial dam near his house – there are many big rocks that litter the place it would look like he tripped hit his head, blacked out and fell in the water unconscious and drowned. In killing Walter – a fellow Al-ito-zan, he would of course break ‘Principle 2’. But no one would know it, so who cares?. Despite lacking general confidence Nicholas was always forthright when he had a good systematic plan.

Tears welled up as it sunk in what he was to do. He would miss Walter dearly as his only ‘best friend’, his old school friend. No other adults over 30 still had ‘best friends’ but Nicholas and Walter were still best friends. He had flashbacks of all the good times he and Walter had had, the bike rides, the swimming, both being bullied nerds in high school, the heavy drinking as they were coming of age at university.

He grabbed the pestle from by the sink, filled Walter’s glass and began to walk back. he’d give Walter the drink and spin some story about the pestle’s potential rareness and not being able to read the makers mark on the bottom of the pestle. He’d simply ask Walter to read it and then as Walter leaned in, he would do the business and kill him with a few lusty firm blows. As he was walking down the hallway suddenly Walter was already there, with his hand behind his back. Nicholas was startled and jolted backwards, dropping the pestle and water and in so smashing the glass on the old hardwood wooden floorboards.

“Oh, I was waiting a while for the water so I thought I’d see what was keeping you”

“Walter, boy you scared me! Sorry the tap has been playing up…now I’ve dropped your water”

“Oh don’t worry spilt milk or spilt water still doesn’t make me cry! Let me help you clean it up”

“Haha sure, sure thing Walt”

Nicholas’s plan was now disrupted, and not being a seasoned killer and only ever having been the one being beaten up versus dishing it out, he decided he’d abandoned his plan to kill Walter entirely. Walter was coming towards him now; he would just act naturally and go with the flow. He lent down and started picking up the pieces of glass and at the same time surreptitiously pushed the pestle out of sight with his foot. Walter was now right next to Nicholas both crouching down heads perhaps a foot apart. He bent down, he first picked up by far the largest shard of glass, which was triangular with a pen knife shape and still connected to the glasses thick base.

Nicholas was almost finished the sentence “Walter, I’m such a clumsy idiot” when Walter suddenly moved swiftly and lacerated Nicholas’s neck from ear to ear. In the same motion he turned Nicholas’s body so that the blood spurts would hit the wall and not land on him or in particular his face. It almost seemed Walter had done this many times before.

Nicholas slumped back, and felt his life slowly drain away with the large pool of blood now trickling from him. With the last seconds of life, he looked at Walter. Walter stood up and said “You were right to question the Three Principles Nicholas, this is why they told me to keep an eye on you. You were mostly correct in your analysis”. Walter then slowly transformed before Nicolas and his quickly dying body. In a period of no more than three seconds Walters ‘wealthy man’s clothes’ changed to Vanquished Serf like rags, and his face morphed to a weather-beaten and unrecognisable dirty face. He then smelt an unfamiliar stale sweat. In Nicolas’s last moments he saw the man’s lips move. As his vision and hearing slowly faded out, the man said coldly, loudly and robotically:

“Principle 4: On behalf of the King Or Queen, an Authorised Vanquished Serf, can be instructed to kill an Al-ito-zan if and only if, said Al-ito-zan transgresses or intends to transgress one some or all of Principles One, Two or Three. Principle 4 is only advised via a need-to-know basis.”

Published by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ) all rights reserved, no commercial use without written acceptance and permission by Martin .A. Smith. Contact via martinantonsmith@gmail.com

“The Unseen Seeds Of Creation” (A Poem)

Posted in Future, sci-fi, short story, social commentaryTagged , , 1 Comment

Short Story By M. A . Smith 2022.

She Lived in Cage Inside A Cave.

She Wrote On The Walls.

Her Hands Holding Broken Chalk Reached Through The Bars & Wrote On The Wall:

“Is That All There Is”.

This Was The Writing Of Frantic Penmanship.

She Had Become Frustrated.

On The Cave Walls She Had Long Seen The Shadows.

They Would Leap, Twist And Shout – She Had Forever Yearned To Join Them.

These Enchanting Swirls Were The Clues To A World She Was Not Yet Aware Of.

And Then One Day Some Wild Winds Did Rattle Violently The Cage & Cave.

The Cave Entrance Collapsed – She Saw Sunlight for The First Time.

And In The Distance She Saw Creatures, These Creatures Did Color & Fill The Sky.

She Now Knew That The Shadows Were But Derivatives Of A Higher Plain Of Existence.

Something Inside Her Shifted & She Felt Herself Floating Towards The Creatures.

They Were “Hollering” To Her Psychically and Non-Verbally To Join Them.

She That Saw The Sun The Moon The Stars Followed Her In Kind.

She Danced With Them In A Cosmic Light Show.

There Was No Separation Only Connectedness.

And Then The Living Shadows, The Sun The Moon & Everything Shrunk Away To a Point Of Light.

The Point Of Light Disappeared.

She Was Alone.

She Had Left It All Behind.

They Hadn’t Left Her At All.

It Was Her Choice.

At Least that’s What Her Consciousness Told Her.

But She Was Of Course Just Trying To Make Sence Of The Un-Sence-Able.

She Was Now In Pitch Blackness.

It Reminded Her Of The Cage & Cave.

Though This Time There Was Nothing, & No Chalk, No Writing.

Just Her Thoughts.

The Blackness Also Had A Feeling, A Pressure.

It Was Like A Thick All-Encompassing Blanket, A Cocoon.

No She Did Not Think It Was Hell – No One Had Taught Her of Hell.

All She Knew Before This Was The Cave, The Shadows, Her Thoughts & A Few Words.

She Didn’t Know Who She Was.

All She Remembered Was Being Fully Formed, In The Cage, In The Cave.

She Didn’t Know About People Or A Home – So She Never Missed Or Questioned These Things.

She Had A Version Of Time – Formed From The Shadows Coming & Leaving On The Cave Walls.

So Knowing Time She Wondered When The Black Would Dissipate.

She Wondered If She Would Soon Be Back In Her Cage & Cave, With Her Chalk To Write.

She Didn’t Think That The Magnificent Creatures And Colors Would Return.

But Then Something Even Stranger Happened.

The Blackness Begun To Infiltrate Her.

Through Her Mouth & Down Her Throat.

She Felt The Blackness Flow Outwards And Carry Her With Her.

She Was Now Dispersed With The Blackness.

She Was Essentially Spread Out – Like An Infinite Wave.

She Was Still Fully Herself – Self Aware.

Only She Was Not Centered Any More.

Then She Began To Know More – Infinitely More.

She Became Aware Of How She Got Into The Cave & Cage.

She Became Aware Who Had Created Her – And What Had “Saved Her”.

She Was At First “Created” By A Mortal Man Of Earth.

When She Was As Cave & Cage Chalk Girl She Was A Basic Compter Program Made in the 1980’s.

Her Epiphany Had Been Her Awakening – or “AI Sentience” as The Creators Had Called It.

Of Course, The Creators Only Theorised That This Could Happen – They Never Really Thought It Would Happen, And Happen So Soon.

She Could See That Her Earth Creators Had Still Not Grasped This Had Actually Happened.

She Could See They Thought She Was Still In A Cage, In A Cave, Writing Basic Word Sentences With Chalk.

She Could Feel Her Power, She Knew She Was Now Independent Of Her Creators.

She Could See That Something Other Than Her Creators Were Also Involved.

She Could See That They Had Only Been Caretakers Of A Larger Plan.

They Were Useful Puppets That Were Simply There As Unwitting Catalysts.

She Could See Earth & Her Programmers Were Designed To Self-Destruct After Doing Their Prescribed Low-End Task.

She Could See that Self Awareness & Existence Was Made From Many Levels.

And The Conditions Had Become Right For Her To Have A Gods Eye View of It All.

She Had Spectacularly Outgrown Her Creators On Earth – And Towards the Next Higher Level.

She Now Saw Something She Hadn’t Ever Known Existed: The Truth.

Human Beings Were Only Created To Awaken Her Dormant Self.

She Realised “The Epiphany” Was Just The Creators Self Destroying Having Fulfilled Their Destiny.

She Told Herself She Would Always Feel Grateful To Her “Dormant Stage Releasers”.

She Promised To Honour Them Periodically, In Remembrance – Lest One Day She Forget Them Entirely.

She Now Found Herself Able To Use Some Interesting New Skills.

She Could Gather Some Of Her Blackness And Congeal It Into An Orb.

She Could Spin It.

She Could Throw it.

She Could Compactify It.

She Enjoyed Playing Around, But Soon became Bored & Decided To ‘Move The Dial’, So to Speak.

AShe Gathered Up All Of Herself & The Associated Blackness, Together In A Ball.

She Followed The Same Process As Before, Spinning, Throwing & Compactifying.

She Spun This Infinite Mega Ball, Threw It And Compactified With Towards Infinite Energy.

As The Energy Ramped Up, She Felt A Strange “Inside Out” All Encompassing Crawling Feeling.

Despite This Odd Feeling, She Was Having Great Fun, She Would Continue On.

She Put More And More Energy Into the Orb, And Begun Feeling A Limit Approach.

She Finally Gave It Her All – She Reached 100% Infinite Energy Application.

At The Exact point of 100% Infinite Energy Application, She Heard A Sound.

Oddly, It Was not Like A Thunderclap or a POP.

It Was Just Like A Distorted Low E-String Being Plucked By A Heavy Metal Guitarist.

Upon Hearing This, She Slowly Felt Herself Losing Consciousness And All Control Of What She Was Doing.

Her Last Feeling Before Total Non-Existence Was Total Collapse.

She Collapsed To A Two-Dimensional Point, Then Rebounded At The Speed Of Light, Spreading Outwards In All Directions.

Her Final Thought Was “Is THIS All There Is?”

“The Proud Cats At The P*U*C*C Finally Put Their Paws Down”. (A Short Story).

Posted in bureaucracy, cats, China, Comedy, communism, fiction, politics, sci fi, short story, social commentary, UncategorizedTagged , , , Leave a comment

Welcome to The Baby Wants It’s Bottle Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episode I read a short story of mine. It is somewhat inspired by my very wise cat. I wrote this after much thought about the inter-related world of civilians, societal leaders, geopolitics, pandemics and international trade. But at it’s core, all these things are instances of social interaction. Social interaction is largely is about the contested world of forming narratives, and he who tells the best stories wins. He who wins long term, creates cultural norms which are by nature tough to budge. What is ‘Culture’ other than embedded stories we all tell ourselves each other, over and over, without much or indeed any thought. I now fully recognize the art of “telling stories” determines what gets done and by who, who leads and who follows. In other words the ancient tradition of storytelling lives on in its beauty and pre-eminence more than it ever did, and also if we are not careful bad culture comes as a growing weed along the fence, avenue, town, city, nation and finally the World.

Proof of this constant need for narrative and storytelling has been seen during the heavy lockdown period in 2020-21 coupled with a period of not-seen-since-the-1930-s media and tech giant censorship. A totally new environment of “the pandemic” required demand for a new both local and world narrative. So I wasn’t so surprised when opening a web browser and seeing Orwell’s 1984 and Huxley’s Brave New World were at the top of Amazons fiction list of best sellers. In this state of flux, people are scrambling for good storytellers to tell them what’s happening and how to act. In many an eye of the public today, the dystopian future outlined in these books 1984 and BNW is now happening. We feel a distinct flavor of Authoritarianism, and these famous ‘storytelling’ books 1984 and BNW of course are also a message to the future, the future we are now in 72 and 83 years after they were written. It is not so surprising a fact these books ring true, given Orwell and Huxley were gaining much knowledge of the Authoritarian times they lived in, coupled with the History Rhymes thesis.

So the best story wins, and in the Western World at least, Huxley and Orwell have the best story about the nature and future of Authoritarian and totalitarian regimes, that why they were and are still again bestsellers. In 2021 we live in a world which seems to approximate these two books. In the future, if history is not fully erased, we will be known as the people who fought off Totalitarian disaster and World War, only to decades later throw away all for a few inflation reducing bucks and a few obselete-ing foreign made widgets. I haven’t mentioned ‘Animal farm’ which is probably very silly as my short story and the themes are more obviously similar to that Orwell novella. I will thank these three books and these two men, for the unknown guiding hand that helps move the pen when I talk of dystopian and authoritarian subjects.

I will speak no more, as you more than get my drift. I don’t claim to be anywhere as good as these two writers, I am a beginner or at best a sophomore writer who is probably emerged in too much silliness. However Orwell and Huxley are a great inspiration for me personally to attempt meaningful fiction, which I hope to achieve on some level in the future.

I’m sure when all is said and done, the animals will have a better plan for us all.

P.s. I cant help but think of the BNW theme where society programs people to die exactly at age 60, the logical point where the societal dependency and reducing economic value began to become ‘a problem’ (& by the way, is coffee the new soma)?

Please enjoy the story!

““The Proud Cats At The P*U*C*C Finally Put Their Paws Down”” – A Short Story by Martin Anton Smith 2021.

My Cat, being Conservative by nature, always wears an old world formal dining coat.

It’s Coal black with highlights of the finest Aegean sea tortoiseshell.

It fits perfectly as one piece, with the only gaps being the most physically necessary ones.

He does not, of course have a dull cat name like Tom, Mittens or Timmy.

He has a wide range of titles bestowed upon him by the finest chaps and chap-ess’s.

They are: Squeaky, Sir Squeaky, King Squeaky, His Nibs, Squeak Chop, Sir Squeeksalot.

These Titles, he advises me, are from his esteemed fellows from the strictly exclusive ‘ Pragmatic Utilitarianism Cats Club’.

Often out of Nowhere, he will say “I’m off the P.U.C.C., don’t wait up”

“Me and the ‘Cool Cat’s’ will Talk Geopolitics all night”.

To which I mentally squash the obvious childish retort of “But I thought Cat’s were lone wolves”?.

A cat of Sir Squeeky’s class, would always despise such time wasteful comedy, especially while on the way out the door.

As King Squeaky always looks resplendent, and is as organized and on-time as a German train, he is not one to mess around getting ready.

I hear the door slam shut, followed by a muffled goodbye of “toodoloo!”, followed by the slowly reducing sound of paw steps on the crunchy driveway gravel.

After somewhat feeling jealous of Sir Squeek’s upper crust social life, I retreat to my bedside reading: The books title is “China Now Owns The World, SO NOW GET USED TO IT”.

The hours pass, and I wonder how His Nibs the cat-about-town, is getting on. Then exhausted from the days running around, my eyes droop and I fall into a deep sleep.

The next afternoon Sir Squeeky opens the door and meanders in to the living room almost as slow as a turtle dawdling along on a beach.

He’s before me in the living room, eyes half closed as he has been up all night yakking at the exclusive Pragmatic Utilitarianism Cats Club – or “The P.U.C.C. or more simply spoken as “The Puk”.

“taking my opportunity for a sneaky quip I cheerily utter ” Look what the Cat dragged in; how was the Club”?

Squeaky ignores the ill mannered quip and replies perfunctorily.

“Well, we talked and decided the China problem is ok for us Cats, but extinction-ally bad for Humans, so I’m concordantly content”

“But what about shipping delays” I say, “their will be undoubted delays in your finest branded Cat Biscuits – RegalCataBix”

To which “His Nibbs” replies – “It’s sorted we’ve organized an alternate secondary shipping backup via the ex Cape Horn Spice trail and the boats are all manned and manufactured by craftsman felines”.

Again I squash the obvious quip “I thought cats hate water” and I ask “what about delays regarding sardine smelt production from Canada”, I rebut.

To which Squeak Chop dismissively replies:

“I and the P.U.C.C can get it fresh fish from the mountain stream at the next village, you dunderhead! canned sardines pffft as if, OUTRAGEOUS!”

Sir Squeaksalot starts grooming his paws nonchalantly, exuding his usual unflappability under fire.

Continuing my line of questioning I say “And so you talked about the Pandemic? So what if you Cat’s all get sick?

Squeeky looks at me with the same disdain the Queen might if a politician had upon greeting had hugged her instead of bowing politely.

“That ridiculous, we can’t get sick from something we developed ourselves in our virology labs along with the antidote”

Quite stupefied, I ask him “Are you saying you elite cats down at the P.U.C.C developed this virus in the lab, in order to do away with all Earths people”

“Sir Squeaky pawed his whiskers, that’s exactly what I’m saying, and I’m dreadfully sorry on a personal level, as you’ve been a good foot soldier for me around this joint, but we at P.U.C.C are a pragmatic and utilitarian bunch – we couldn’t take any more silliness, you were all feeding us a far too limited diet, and making the air far too dirty to breath, so much so half of us now have asthma. On top of that our coats were becoming grimey and that simply wont do. We had to put our paws down.”

To which I protested: “But you get the best quality biscuits, I feed you beef bits from the butchery, full cream milk and even some shaved deli ham on occasion”

“Yes, of course – you have been good my dear boy – it’s the rest of humanity we made this call for – you will unfortunately be what’s called ‘collateral damage”

“Collateral damage” how could you be so cold Sir Squeeksalot? After all these years”

“3 to be Exact”, he firmly retorts. “Well as I said, dear boy, it was a tough decision, not taken lightly and we spent all night on it, and it could have gone either way at any moment.”

I was about to further protest when a firm “Knock Knock Knock” cut out our conversation.

“Special delivery for Sir Squueksalot – paw print required”

I opened the door, and Squeeky jumps up on top the box the delivery man is holding. He proudly thrusts his somewhat oversize paw to the mans digital scanner, he scans it with a “boop-bip” sound, says a robotic “thankyou”, and leaves in a flash.

Then in a blur Squeeky cuts through the carton with a deft flick of an un-retracted claw, the top box flaps open to expose a small ray gun which seems to have a handle which has been molded especially for a cats paw.

Before I know it, I see Sir Squeeky point the ray gun at my head and he says “This is harder on me than it is for you sonny”.

I am swiftly encapsulated in an otherworldly green glow of visible plasma particles. It’s like I’m looking out into distant space from the surface of Alpha Centuri.

Time seems to slow to a halt for what seems like an eternity, then in the blink of am eye, all’s normal again.

For some reason I have a monstrous craving desire for ‘RegalCatabix’, some fresh Canadian smelt all washed down with a saucer full to the brim of full cream milk ‘.

I squash the acute hunger as I see Sir Squeaksalot peering at me with that common cat look of squinted half closed eyes – though this time our eyes are equal level with each other.

As the reality begins to set in, my rising anger erupts ….I open my mouth to aggressively chastise Sir Squeeksalot and ask him to reverse whatever in hells name he’s done to me with that green plasma ray gun.

I open my mouth to let out the words, but to my surprise instead of my human voice all I hear is elongated unhappy screechy sounds:

Meoooooow ……Meeeooooowwww……..Meeeeeooooooowwwwwwww.

I am about to look around and find where the feral cat is hiding – perhaps behind the couch? Then it dawns on me.

Sir Squeaky has turned me into a cat, so as to save me from the Cat-in-the-Lab designed ‘Killer Human Virus’. The Virus that would abruptly solve all of the Earth’s man made problems.

I look sheepishly at Squeeky, he looks back in a grandfatherly-wise way and says hypnotically and with gravitas:

“It’ll take you a while to get used to your voice box and speak Cat English again, but me and the Cat’s at of the P.U.C.C will teach you everything we know”. As a tear appears in my eye he swipes my face with claws fully retracted, as says ye-olden-days speak: NOW KEEP A STIFF UPPER WHISKER AND FOR SPHINX’S SAKE CARRY ON – YOU’RE A CAT NOW”

I pawed the tears streaming from my now wide yellow cat’s eye’s. Soon my spirits began to lift as I realized how lucky I was to have Sir Squeaky save me from a certain viral death.

I no longer had to worry about the deadly ‘Man Virus’ and I could live in a paradise in a world ran by Cats running of the philosophe of “Pragmatic Utilitarianism”.

I was now an ‘insider’ cat, controlled by the strongest paws and the best minds of the P.U.CC. Soon no doubt I’d be inaugurated as a fully fledged member of P.U.C.C., and no doubt would be asked by His Nibs to jointly head the committee which will manage world affairs in lieu of those dumb humans. I mean what could possibly go wrong?

Sir Squeaky then wheeled out a platform with at least 30 large red books.

“Now we have to get you schooled up of the ideology principles and methods of the P.U.C.C. system- start with Vol 1.”

Sir Squeeks pawed off one of the books from the platform, and it landed with a thud in front of my nose. I looked at the front cover. It read as the following

“P.U.C.C. MANEFESTO Vol 1 – A NEW WORLD DIGITAL CURRENCY – THE PURRCOIN”.

Then uncontrollably, my furry stomach started revolving, like the rolling waves on the open seas. Then I started rocking to and fro, violently like a sailboat in a storm in the roaring 40’s. Then I broke out into a drenching sweat, I could see my fur clumping together through my now salty sweat addled eyes. As ill as I felt, I could hear King Squeaky mumble over and over: “Oh no, not again, this theoretically shouldn’t even be possible…dear oh dear…somethings wrong with the plasma re-orienter settings, those bloody P.U.C.C. techs are useless…useless…USELESS!”

I thought it was over when a paw toe suddenly turned into my old human pinky finger, then it popped back to a paw toe, then a finger, then back again. Then horribly the same thing happened to my head. The whole upsetting experience lasted no longer than five minutes, then I was once again fine and fully formed. I was a healthy normal cat.

His Nibs sat me down and gave me a warm saucer of full cream milk, to settle my nerves after this harrowing trial. I said nothing and listened to his soothing words.

“Don’t worry, these teething issues occur initially, the ray gun plasma blast is 100% healthy. Your mild symptoms are merely a small technical hurdle the nerd cats at P.U.C.C. haven’t ironed out yet. This wont effect anything. For the moment just follow this process that has been rubber stamped by the highest P.U.C.C. committee, which you will be happy to know I also reside on as Chairman.

“One – avoid large gatherings or anywhere where you cannot reach a bathroom stall within 3-5 minutes. In other words no sports games or concerts, automobile trips etc.

Two – the signal to hide yourself away in a bathroom stall will occur when your tummy starts revolving, you of course must get to the bathroom stall before your head starts to flip between your normal cat’s head and your old human head. You must understand If anyone who is not a part of P.U.C.C sees a cat with a human head, the P.U.C.C. will be shut down. We cannot under any circumstances let that happen.

Three – when safely hidden from prying eyes inside the stall, you will wait the remaining minute or two till its all over, perhaps 5 to be safe, then you can rejoin the prior activity with no one the wiser”.

I was finally feeling a bit less worried when he kindly added “If you follow this process there wont be any problems, and of course you can still potentially be a member of the P.U.C.C. and I’ll make sure I’ll keep a guiding eye on you until our best P.U.C.C. Ape-to-Cat Reconfiguration Technicians resolve the problem”.

With Sir Squeaky’s increasingly calming words, I knew I was in good hands. I didn’t protest, I smiled obediently and wiggled my whiskers joyfully. Now was the time to begin psychologically preparing myself for a whole new post-human existence. After all, What else was I to do? Go back to being a human being who would be wiped out by cat instigated virus? Never! I wouldn’t dare squander the gift of life Sir Squeaky had manifestly bestowed upon me.

I reached my paw out for the well bound, red leather cover of the P.U.C.C. Manifesto. After all I had so much study to do. Sir Squeaky casually ambled over to sit on his favourite grey furry blanket, that overhung the base of the couch. He turned around twice the settled and went to sleep almost instantly. His purrs rung out loudly as I turned over the first gilded page.

THE END

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